points the faith in higher things,

[dashing]

WHO: Herian Amsel & open.
WHAT: the party don't start 'til she walks in. (Introducing Herian & her recruitment to the Inquisiton.)
WHEN: mid-July & onwards.
WHERE: Halamshiral & surrounds, maybe some Skyhold later?
NOTES: Prose/brackets are both fine!
Open starters in the main post (more to be added), closed starters in the comments, if we've discussed any plans feel free to barge in with a wildcard or prod me via pm or pp @karmacharging and I'll whip something up. If you'd like some information on this problem child, here is her info post.
WARNINGS: Herian's background includes themes of violence, torture and death, as well as discrimination and her own post traumatic stress disorder. While she will not in general be vocal about some of her own prejudices (against apostates, Dalish and nobles as some examples) it is very likely to come up in narrative and could come up in dialogue depending on interactions. Here is an opt out post if you'd rather certain things be avoided, or if you'd like to opt out of interactions with her in general.

Arriving with the Inquisition ( open. )
Herian Amsel exists in shades of winter, even when the world around her is dusty from heat. Her hair is dark, the black of a tree stripped of leaves and colour and grasping at a grey, unsympathetic sky, her eyes a pale, blue that people might foolishly attribute to ice in a fit of romanticism. For all that she appears to carry winter with her, summer has rolled relentlessly through a country already bearing the scorchmarks of war, making the people and the landscape seem to blur together. It is the dirt, she expects, the clouds of dust that have rolled over them on their journey. Even the grass feels dry and brittle. The closer they have drawn to the estate of Duc Hugues Pelletier, the more she has wondered just what difference there will be between the state of the gardens and the grass the common folk can wander on outside. It seems comical, if not downright insane that she be leading a group of elven refugees to the estate of an Orlesian noble for sanctuary, but she promised them she would bring them to the Inquisiton, and if the Inquisition is in Halamshiral then the group will have access to better food and medicine and more protection than she can afford them if she were to escort them to Skyhold as their sole guard.


Option A.
Herian is on foot, leading a palomino stallion with an elven woman on his back, pregnant and exhausted. Mage as she might be, Herian carries no staff. Instead a sword hangs by her side, and something like twenty refugees follow behind her.

"Inquisition," she starts, and her accent is defiantly and perhaps unexpectedly Starkhaven. "These refugees seek sanctuary amongst your number, and to lend their hands to your cause. To where shall I lead them?"


Option B.
Still on foot, Herian accompanies a smaller number of elves, now, heading towards the makeshift Medical Tents. The pregnant woman from before is with her, Herian leading her so that the woman can rest a hand on her forearm, Herian move slowly and patiently.

"This way. The mages here work under the Inquisiton banner, so if your need is dire then they are well qualified to bring you aid. You need not spend any time in the presence of those that set you ill at ease." Her voice is soft, and she has not yet looked up to the person standing nearby. "Can I have the names of your elven healers, for my friends?"


Other Increasingly Ridiculous Prompts ( open. )
Option C.
There is something singularly satisfying about the burn of muscles after exertion. Usually it comes in the form of training, practicing forms over and over for hours on end. Today, though, Herian is chopping wood, ensuring that those she accompanied who are still tired or injured need not worry should they have need, or perhaps so she can be useful to the Inquisition in some form.

Largely she does it because she likes to work, and the steady routine of grabbing up the heavy slabs of wood and breaking them apart with an axe is steadying. Not quite the meditation technique that she was taught in the Spire, but it sets her in the right frame of mind all the same. Her breath, her mind, and the regular thud and splinter make her feel better. Sweat rolls down her back, the thin material of her shirt sticks to her skin, and the tangled mess of her hair seems wilder even than before.

.... Although it is after noon and she's doing it non-stop for a long time in the summer sun, so perhaps an intervention would be wise.


Wildcard me, bro.

Comments

( closed ) Thranduil. ( hover for translation. )

[dashing]

The days are long and dusty, and even after meeting with Adelaide, Herian is not at peace. The Dalish could come and go amongst her people freely, and though a good many of the refugees have no care for the Dalish, they did not have the standing to brace themselves against them should the Dalish insist on being present. Herian worries the inside of her cheek with her teeth as she walks with buckets of fresh water, setting them down by the fire where an older woman with waves of red hair and warm brown eyes is cooking. Herian's own smile is slight, as it always is, until there is the thunder of familiar feet.

Herian crouches down as the child approaches her, a little storm of honey-blonde ringlets, and for all that Herian barely smiles her expression still brightens, and she gently taps Tabitha's chin. "Aren't you bonny?"

Tabitha beams, grabs Herian's sleeve to tug at it, and starts to draw her in the direction of Someone New in camp. Herian can feel the tension coiling about her spine even as she is lead. The last time Tabitha encountered a stranger it had been the Dalish, Pel. She doubts that her optimism at Adelaide visiting deserves any merit.

When she sees him - easily beyond a full foot taller than most elves in camp, with long hair that she could not place as silvery or blond in such bright light as this, Herian is surprised. He carries not the wretched tattoos of the Dales, but he certainly is not akin to any elf she has ever seen.

It is unsurprising Tabitha leads her to him, and she informs him very smartly that this is the lady that brought them here, and that she has kept them safe, and that she is the bravest person Tabitha has ever met, as if Herian is a favourite doll being shown off. Herian, for her part, looks up that the stranger with a guarded sort of curiosity, as Tabitha hugs against her leg.

"Ceud mìle fàilte. Fine day to you. What brings you to our dwelling, sir?"

[rowancrowned]

He's coaxed the story from several children, begged a meal from the adults, and spent the rest of the time performing little tricks for the youngest ones- coins out from behind ears, then pressed into pockets where mothers and fathers will find them later and will be less inclined to refuse.

Thranduil smiles at Tabitha before acknowledging Herian. His back was bowed a bit to be on her level, but once facing her, he straights it, settles his shoulders, and crosses his leg. The bowl and the crust of bread still in it- that he fully intends to finish, thank you- are neatly pushed to the side.

"The elflings," he answers honestly. "But they are well-fed, and for the most part clothed warmly, and those here have the sense to dig their wells away from where they dig their latrines."

They're elves- of course they have the sense to do so.

The woman comes over and ladles another half-measure of soup into his bowl. The smile he gives her is warmer than the one for Herian when he breaks eye contact with the cook, and certainly more bemused. "I stayed for the food."

[dashing]

The cook, for her part, a woman who is older but whose precise age is hard to pin down, as with so many elves, has warm brown hair, streaked with silver. Her expression is one of quiet delight.

"Agathe joined us from the house of a nobleman. I suspect she could make a feast from the very dust, had she need. We've been most fortunate." Herian's tone is even and quiet, and yet there is a subtle sort of softness in it. She is lightly nudged by Agathe, handed her own bowl of soup, and given a significant look along with her heel of bread.

She stands with her bread and her soup, but makes no move to dine immediately. Instead she looks to their guest, and bows her head respectfully. "I am Herian Amsel. A pleasure to break bread with you, ser."

[rowancrowned]

He returns the gesture, and wonder upon wonders, makes room for her on his perch. He is rarely so easily gracious to a human, but her sex and the high recommendation from the elves makes him more-- interested.

"Thranduil." He uses his spoon to neatly section the sodden crust under the stew into bite-sized pieces. He was well-trained as an elfling. His manners are as much a part of him now as they were they, even if he wields them as he uses everything else about himself, his looks, his words- as weapon or shield. As needed.

"Have you sworn yourself to the Inquisition?"

[dashing]

Not so simple a question. This Thranduil cuts to the very meat of matters, it seems. She accepts the place at his side, but does not start on her soup right away, resting her spoon in the bowl and cupping her hands so that they are warmed by it. Her hands, like the rest of her, are pale, but with visible calluses along parts of her palms and fingers from physical work and the wielding of swords and staves and shovels.

"Oaths are not to be made so lightly," she replies, looking across the camp. "I am a Knight Enchanter of the White Spire. My duty is to the Chantry and the Divine, when next one ascends the Sunburst Throne. Chantry law guides our spirit blades." And yet, there is something more to be said, something that makes her jaw flex a moment, gaze narrowing slightly. "Even as I stand by the Chantry, they have condemned the elves with words and actions that I cannot ignore— that no person of honour could dismiss. My duty and my responsibilities are to the Chantry, but my oaths and my heart belong to the elves."

The Inquisition is another cause, its own agenda, and the rumours that circulate it are vicious. The elves she brought here because it was their wish and because it would ensure their safety better than other options. She shakes her head, and looks to Thranduil. "I have heard whispers of elves from the Rifts, Thranduil, and that the Inquisition did not treat them as they ought. What say you of it?"

It seems the more logical conclusion, that he is of a Rift than he is of Thedas.

[rowancrowned]

He tilts his head by the slightest of degrees and smiles, all at once bemused and sympathetic.

"You have tied yourself up in quite the knot, my dear." He takes a spoonful of soup- just as delicious as the first bowl, if better, for by now they are towards the bottom of the pot and closer to the richer part of the broth.

"I stand by whatever action my cousin chooses. I only regret that the Inquisition failed to respect our... sovereignty. Independence would be the better word, perhaps. But the Seeker is young, and quite taken with the concept of 'order'. It is the fault of her upbringing."

And Thedas as a whole, but he doesn't quite want to speak of that. Another bite of the soup, and back to resting his spoon on the side of his bowl, just-so. "And what do you think of the Lady Galadriel, Knight-Enchanter?"

[dashing]

Perhaps that is so. There is a flicker of a smile, the suggestion of it only at the corner of her mouth, and it is gone. "I can only act as my honour commands me, and as compassion guides me. The elves are in ever great need of the latter." And the Chantry the former, though she says it not.

"You honour your cousin well. But— would not your sovereignty rely upon order, in turn? I am not hasty to defend the actions of the Seeker; I know not if she is a warmonger, or a woman of honour acting justly. But if you claim sovereignty and power, does not that require rules and order? It seems a strange blade to hold against the Seeker, if that is so."

She lacks the defiance and attitude that she would have brought to such a question were she still in the Spire. It was a time when she did not adhere to the Code so carefully and consistency. Do not cause needless offence, uphold the Maker's will, magic serves Man, live with honour and kindness, live for valour. The list never seems to end, but she tries— oh, how she tries. Her tone is careful, and she tries to keep her words so, without shying from the truth. A knight must not lie. They must not shy from the truth.

A mouthful of soup, as she thinks. "I know not your cousin, my Lord." If his cousin is the Lady, then so too must he carry a title. She is not well-versed in the way of nobles, truth be told. "And I carry no right to judgment." But he asked her opinion and she will not lie. "I found myself troubled by rumours of her favouring the Dalish. They are not honourable people. Either she will suffer for her love of them, or all other elves will. That is their way."

i'm sorry for him

[rowancrowned]

His smile grows. "And here you are, ready and willing to play savior."

Thranduil regrets the state of Thedas. More truthfully, he regrets not being here. Not being able to stem the tide of blood and ruin and loss- if not since the fall of Elvhenan, then from at least the Dales, where he might have helped. But he is not there. He is here, with what he can do now-

And what right does Herian have to try her hand at improving the lot of a people she has no claim to? A people her kind have enslaved and led to ruin?

If safety and rebirth of the elves in Thedas comes, it will not be by Mannish hands. It will only come from within.

"I am not your Lord," he begins, settling into a more neutral expression as he watches her, makes eye contact when she cares to. (When has he ever been the Lord of a Mortal?) "And the order I have lived with all my long life is based upon tenets the Seeker does not hold, for moral purposes or simply that they are not considered important, here in Thedas. Justice is applied differently here, though understand I have my own rules. The Freemarchers in the Inquisition-" yes, he knows her accent. "- are not held to the letter of the Orlesian law, though they reside there. Though, of course, we speak of shemlen Freemarchers."

Elves are held seemingly to a universal elven law of heads and eyes down.

His brows raise, he humors her. "Go on, please. I would very much enjoy a lecture from a Man on the savage ways of all the Dalish elves. Please, enlighten me."

(She is, in the end, a Man pass the age when they are considered to be adults. He will not, as the Orlesians say, treat her with kidskin gloves.)

cw: mention of mutilation, torture, death.

[dashing]

"I am no saviour," she replies, brow furrowing faintly. "I neither desire nor deserve such a title."

There is a long silence, marked by the clatter of metal upon metal. Agathe stands nearby, drying her hands on the tattered cloth of her apron, and the look she marks Thranduil with is venomous. The cook advances towards him, hand reaching expectantly for his bowl. Herian, for her part, looks surprised. Not by Thranduil, but by Agathe, her hands white with the strain with which she flexes them. Elven servants cannot speak out easily - perhaps that explains her silence. Her ire, though, explains her actions. Talk of order is abandoned for later.

"Agathe, I am—" suddenly uncertain how to respond to the woman's anger, in fact. Herian pauses a moment, and gentles her tone. "I am touched greatly by your vigilant concern for our guest, but I am sure he is not yet finished with that soup you served him already." She reaches to Agathe, gently sets her hand against her forearm for just a moment. Agathe's gaze is turned on Herian, who just nods, expression softer, more earnest. "His words are fair ones. Do not make enemies on mine own account, I beg you."

Agathe looks at Thranduil, small and wounded and proud, before nodding to Herian and lightly patting the human on the cheek and leaving.

Another pause, before she turns to look back at the Rifter. "Your presumptions do you and your kin little credit. I am human, aye. That is the way of it. When elves and humans mix their blood, the result of it is always a human child. My father was elven. My mother was the only human in a family of elves." That is a wound so often unmentioned, untouched, and she has no wish to dwell on the possibilities of how it came to be. "Before she and I, the lines of Amsel and Kier and Sullivan were elven in their entirety. I was born in the Starkhaven alienage, Thranduil. I was raised there. I know the hunger, and the pestilence, and the damp and the cold that elves live in. I know their desperation, because it was my own. I know that when an abomination burned near half the alienage down that nobles," and she fixes him with a look there, for he may be elven but he is a noble as well, "had no concern save that it did not reach their homes and their businesses."

Her heart beats hard and fast and painful in her chest, but her voice stays very steady, does not threaten even to raise.

"And in my family alone I saw my mother's cousin mutilated and my father, elves both," and that is where some of her calm leeches away, "tortured and killed by the Dalish. I learned long ago that the shape of our ears mark us not as kin. I will do all for the elves of Thedas, they are my heart. But the Dalish are murderers who turn their blades against elves who go to them for help. They attacked the very people in this camp as they travelled. You can ask any one of them; the words need not come my lips, if an elf-blooded human is so far beneath you. Or if you have so great a love for the Dalish as your kin seems to, ask them of Fen'Harel's Teeth, and hear of it from themselves if you believe they will speak honestly."

Still quiet, still controlled. Her voice does not betray her; it is the white of her knuckles, the strain of her pulse under her skin.

[rowancrowned]

The moment Agathe reaches, he offers her the bowl—her bowl—and her soup, and his respect. But she has had that since he met her, and she will have it far past when he leaves. He watches her go, with regret, but soothes himself with the promise that he has time, time enough to make a difference.

(Savior, master, benevolent watcher, human guardian, protector- it all boils down to the same thing, in the end, a rhetoric the humans profit from, and the elves still find themselves worse off at the end of. He wonders why they cannot see-- but they will.)

“Peredhil,” he notes, easily. Half-Elven. More common here, though it means less for his purposes. He will not dispute the worthiness of Beren or any of his kin, nor is he reluctant to allow her the title, despite the location. But she glares at him, and he laughs, for if she imagines him of the same sort she may do as she wishes, but he knows what he is, even here, sitting perched on a stump so far from home.

How easily she tars all the Dalish with the same brush, wraps them together as one entity and condemns them. All the Clans, under one name, one ban—

But she is far from unique in this, and it only serves to remind him of what he will fight. Not her, not the people like her, but the elves exposed to such words, again and again, until they believe it. Calls the elves of Thedas her heart, but pushes the Dalish from the dignity of even that and condemns them as animals.

He can hear her heartbeat, a bird beating against the cage of her ribs. “What clan?” Plainly, only interest. “The one that hurt your mother’s cousin, and your father, and the one that attacked you coming here. If you have no names, a sigil would do.”

[dashing]

Herian, for her part, is sorry about Agathe taking his soup, and unhappy that such an action was taken on her behalf, and uncertain if it would be somehow an insult to offer her own soup to the stranger - an insult to him, but more importantly to Agathe, who had taken decisive action. She sits with the soup bowl cupped in her hands, and it seems an ill-done thing to eat when his food has been taken from him, and to set aside what Agathe has given her.

There are times when Herian wished the code could be a bit more specific to certain scenarios, instead of simply instilling in her the desire not to cause offence wantonly. Oh, what she would do in this present moment, for soup etiquette.

She allows her quiet displeasure to be swayed by her curiosity, though she makes no rush to repeat a word that she knows not the meaning of. "May I ask what that means?"

Shemlen, she assumes. Human. A word not always meant to cut, but that feels like a wound she cannot escape.

His question makes her brow raise a little, faintly surprised by his interest. "Clan Neirysa," she replies, easily, though tension inches up her spine, her shoulders drawing back and her entire body braced as her heart hammers painfully with it, and her lungs protest. The crisis remains entirely internal, a response of fear and horror and anger, as Herian thinks. "We either fell foul of the same clan on three separate occasions, or different clans. Never did they make themselves know through insignia nor introduction."

[rowancrowned]

He watches her sit, temporarily consumed by something. Patience- and listening to the sounds of the camp about them- tides him over until she speaks again.

"It refers to one of the Half-Elven." He supposed it could apply to all of them- all except Dior, he of Threefold Race- but the technicalities of the political climate of Arda are not ones he wants to share with Herian.

He indicates her, all of her, head to toe. "The Peredhil usually have the Elven look, but the choice of immortality or the fate of Men is their own." That anyone would choose the fragile, impermanent nothing of Men is bizarre to him, choosing to be cut off from the Song.

Well. It is not a choice that Herian will have to make.

How he wished for a high backed chair to settle into. Nor would he walk. He's done enough insult to the cook. "Clan Neirsya," Thranduil clarifies, watching intently, hands neatly in his lap.

"Why do you suspect them? Where were you? When?"

[dashing]

"Clan Neirysa declared themselves to us when my father took me to them. So far as they are concerned, it is not matter of suspicion." Just in case she had been unclear. Communication is no great virtue of hers, not in the way that others seem to spin words and make understanding bend to their benefit. Not quite lies, but a number of convenient truths.

"That was near Starkhaven. These more recent attacks were in Orlais; our party is largely comprised of elves from Val Firmin and the area surrounding. It was not safe to travel by road much of the way, with the war escalating." Her brow flickers, and Herian reaches for a long stick, a leftover from an earlier game of sword fighting between the children earlier. She uses to to sketch a rough map detailing from Val Firmin to Halamshiral, with a line to indicate the Frostbacks, as well. "Much of the journey demanded hiding from soldiers and chevaliers and common villagers alike. Straying into the edges of woods provided decent enough cover." She could do much, but if there were endless troops? Ah, she'd not endanger the elves for the sake of her ego. "So close to the Dales as we were, we tried to balance the risks."

On the map she marks three crosses over the rough areas where they were attacked. One is roughly in the area around Montsimmard, while the two others are much closer together, near Verchiel. "The first attack was only arrows. I cannot know with certainty based in evidence, but based upon the shots loosed upon us near Verchiel," and she taps the city on the map, "where we saw those attacking us, I think the arrows shared the same method of crafting. The first attack would have been three weeks past." Their travel was not as fast as it could have been, taking awkward roads and travelling with the frail and vulnerable. "They did not attack me alone; our party entire was subject to their violence. They ask them at your leisure, they can speak of it with their own tongues if you've cause to doubt. She frowns for a moment. "There was no formal introduction, but several of them called out Grymusseth."

[rowancrowned]

He is not getting all the information from her he needs. Not her fault—she has not been trained as a scout, and furthermore is not loyal to him. Nor does he wish to subject her to further prodding. He has a name—he has two names, though ‘Grymusseth’ is as far from Elvhen-sounding as anything could be. Montsimmard, Verchiel, Clan Neirysa. Thranduil has done more with less.

Now, he stands, and steps neatly around her map, not wishing to do her insult by ruining it. “I leave for Orlais within the week. I do not know how long I shall linger there, but once my business is done, I will call upon these elves, and ask for a reckoning.”

And receive one. He would not go alone, of course, he would need Galadriel’s help, and if he could not persuade another elf or two along—Merrill? Cyril?—he was a poor politician.

“I thank you for your help.” He inclines his head, a bow by degrees. “And later, if she will have it, give my thanks to Agathe. If the elflings need anything-- anything-- do not hesitate to ask.”

[dashing]

She is not sure what surprises her more; that he seems to listen, or that he seems to take her words seriously, and holds the matters that troubled these elves here worthy of action. Even if it is a pretence, that is more than many see fit to offer. Herian stands as Thranduil does, and bows, right hand pressed over her heart as she does so. "I am grateful. And I am glad that these elves have another friend hence. They have been too long deprived."

Part of her is uncertain at the thought of leaving another to do the work that is her own, and though her brow is furrowed, she stays silent a moment, debating if she should request a place in this reckoning. It seems doubtful that he would heed such a request.

"If they have any need, they or I will call upon you. You have my word."